She pulled into his driveway at five minutes ’til two and felt relief wash over her that he wore a smile when he opened the door for her.

“Come in, pet.”

“Thank you, Sir.” She put her purse, phone, and glasses on the counter and turned to face him, ready to drop to her knees at his signal.

Instead of the expected gesture to kneel, his hand shot out and grabbed her ponytail.

Now she knew why he’d ordered her to wear her hair that way.

He forcefully pulled her head back, so she had to bend her knees to follow the movement. It forced her to look up into his eyes as he leaned in so close she could feel his breath.

So close she could kiss him if he’d just lean in a millimeter closer.

His voice dropped to a deep growl. “You were a very disrespectful pet Wednesday night.”

Her juices flowed as fear and desire struggled for domination in her body.

Unfortunately, desire fought dirty and kicked fear in the balls before locking it in a closet.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she whispered.

“I know you are. Not as sorry as you will be. You agreed to punishment, correct?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Punishment does not include a safeword. Not this time. You have two choices. You accept my punishment, or you leave and we part amicably.”

“Punishment, please, Sir.” The words left her without hesitation.

The hint of a smile returned. “Good girl.” He marched her by her hair, still bent over, to the playroom.

He took her to one of the spanking benches and forced her across it. “Stay.” When he released her hair, she froze in place, barely breathing and wondering if he could smell how wet she was.

He buckled the leather cuffs around her wrists and ankles and then grabbed her hair again, pulling her back into a standing position. “Dress off.”

She lifted it up. He switched holding her ponytail with his other hand so he could take the dress from her. He tossed it onto the floor, then bent her over the bench again.

“Hands down, and hold on to the bench.”

She reached down and grabbed the base on either side.

“Legs spread apart.”

She did.

Only then did he let go of her ponytail. He knelt next to her. “You are accepting your punishment. I will not restrain you. If you fight me or get up, the session ends and you leave. If you really want to continue, you will take every stroke I give you. I will not force you to take them. You will choose to take them. That’s why you have no safeword, because you are free to get up and walk away. Understand?”

Her fingers tightened around the bench. “Yes, Sir,” she whispered.

He stood and walked behind her. She couldn’t see where he went, but when he returned and she heard the first zwip cut through the air, she knew exactly what he held in his hand.

Only a rattan cane made that sound.

“Twenty-five for disrespect. Count every one out aloud. If you miscount, I start over. We will stay here as long as it takes, even if it means missing dinner and the club, for a full count of twenty-five. Understand?”

She felt the endorphins kicking in already. “Yes, Sir.” She tightened her grip on the bench even more, knowing these would hurt like a motherfucker.

And she’d show him she could take it.

She’d show him how sorry she was.

She’d prove it.

“Here we go.”

She closed her eyes as she heard the cane’s path even as it struck her squarely across the ass. She let out a cry as a stripe of fire seemed to follow in the same breath. “One, Sir,” she said with a shaky voice.

She was sobbing by the time he hit five, and suspected the endorphins had really driven her deeply into subspace because every stroke, while painful, felt lighter than the last from number ten on out, although they all hurt like a son of a bitch and drew a loud cry from her with each impact.

By the time they reached twenty-five, she hadn’t missed a single count and she was sobbing so badly a puddle of snot and drool had formed under her cheek where it pressed against the bench.

He grabbed a towel and walked over to her, tenderly tucking it under her face. His hand lightly stroked her ass and thighs where she knew there would be welts and marks visible to the whole dungeon that night.

But she’d done it. She’d taken them for him. The fire in her ass from every stripe he’d laid in her flesh was worth it.

He gathered her against him. “That’s my good girl,” he softly said, rocking her in his arms. “There’s my very good pet. All the bad gone. The board’s reset, and my pet’s all good again.”

She sobbed even harder, so relieved to hear the tenderness return to his tone. She clutched at him. “I’m sorry, Sir. I’m so sorry.”

He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “All’s forgiven, pet. In the future, you will code and talk to me, no matter how uncomfortable it feels. I will be patient with you, but you cannot fight me like that. You have to talk to me.”

“Yes, Sir.”

* * *

Tony wondered how long it would take her to discover the ruse. She’d howled like she’d taken a hell of a beating, and in her distress that was what she thought she had.

She had two, maybe three cane stripes on her ass that would probably fade by the end of the night. The rest were light strokes he delivered with a thin metal rod he’d grabbed from the freezer in the utility room just before he started. In her deep subspace, she’d processed the cold as pain, especially when he’d combined it with swishing the real rattan cane in the air with his other hand to make the sound as he’d touched the cold rod to her ass.

When he saw she genuinely wanted to atone, he’d gone for the mindfuck, glad to be able to use it and not having the heart to truly whip her ass. Mark her head to toe in fun?

Sure.

Punishment?

He hated having to do it. She’d obviously beaten herself up mentally far more than he could ever in good conscience beat her physically.

And she hadn’t let go of the bench once. Not even after the first couple of blows from the rattan cane, which were physically the hardest strikes he’d delivered.

When she finally calmed, he waited until she blew her nose in the towel to point to the floor. She slid to her knees.

“Greeting, pet,” he softly said.

She immediately bent to kiss his feet, the sight of her rounded back as she did stirring his cock. Then she kissed the backs of his hands.

Then she nuzzled the front of his slacks before looking up at him, eyes red and puffy from crying.

She was beautiful.

He helped her to her feet and handed her dress to her. “Good girl. Go clean up, pet, and meet me in the living room.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He was sitting on the couch when she walked in a few minutes later looking confused.

That didn’t take long. “Problem, pet?” He patted the couch next to him and had her curl up with her head in his lap.

“I’m confused, Sir.”

He bit the inside of his lip to stifle the laughter. “Why?”

“You gave me punishment.”

“Yes?”

“And I counted out twenty-five strokes.”

“Yes?”

“I only have a couple of marks, Sir. Not that I’m complaining,” she rapidly added.

He laughed. “Oh, my sweet pet. Let me tell you about the art of a truly fine mindfuck.”

* * *

Shayla awoke late Sunday morning with a sore ass and a happy heart. She’d laughed along with Tony when he explained the various ways to mindfuck someone in a scene. Including relating a firsthand anecdote he’d read from someone who’d been convinced they’d had chunks of their flesh taken from their body, which was then cooked and fed to them, only to find out a few minutes later they didn’t have a scratch on their body.

Obviously, that had been the extreme end of the scale, but after having been through it she could understand it.

Then they’d had another talk. About James.

About the emotional debris she still worked to clear from her heart and soul despite knowing what he’d done wasn’t about her as much as it was about him.

She also resigned herself to the fact that she never would understand why he did what he did. There would never be a clear-cut absolute she could cite with any certainty.

“The only thing for you to keep in here,” Tony said as he looked down at her and touched his index finger to the spot between her eyes, “is that nothing you did or could have done would have changed what he did.”

“If I hadn’t given him a second chance—”

“Stop, pet.” He tapped her forehead. “You’re giving him rent-free space in here when he damn sure doesn’t deserve it. I know you can’t turn emotions and pain off like a light switch. But the first step to getting over it for good is accepting it’s not your fault. And in this case, it isn’t. You’re a good woman, with a good heart, and at the time, for you, it was the right thing to do. Maybe it wouldn’t have been the right thing for someone else. But tell me this, had you left him the first time, do you think maybe you would have been tempted to keep agonizing over the ‘what if’ option of giving him a second chance?”

She hadn’t thought about it like that. She had considered leaving James the first time around.

Then he’d proposed.

And she’d felt too much shame the first time at the thought of admitting to her full circle of friends and extended family why she was leaving him, didn’t know enough about porn addiction at the time to understand it.

Never dreamed he’d rob her blind, or that he’d already taken out the first credit card in her name without her knowledge.

She stretched and grabbed her phone from the bedside table to text Tony. Good morning, Sir.

He texted her back a little while later. Good morning, pet. How’s the ass?

She smiled. Later at the club, he had put marks on her ass. As she studied them in the bathroom mirror that morning she could see imprints from a riding crop, the dastardly silicone spoon, and more cane marks.

Real ones, this time.

Good, Sir.

Excellent. How soon can you be over here?

A delicious shiver ran through her. He’d detailed all the things he planned to do to her today. Anal training was first on the list.

Along with more forced orgasms.

One hour.

He replied a few minutes later. Don’t be late.

She was already in her car thirty minutes later when she remembered she hadn’t checked the mail yesterday. Screw it, I’ll drive past it.

In a hurry not to be late, she grabbed the handful of mail that had filled her box and didn’t bother sorting through it. She threw it on the passenger seat and headed for Tony’s, her heart light even as butterflies created a hurricane in her stomach.

When she reached Tony’s driveway with eight minutes to spare, she was going a little faster than she meant and had to brake hard as she made the turn. The mail on the seat, along with her purse and phone, went flying.

“Dammit.”

She parked in her usual spot and shut the engine off. Tony appeared in the front door as she leaned over to grab everything.

That was when she spotted the envelope with a Cleveland return address.

From one James Tavery.

She sat there staring at the envelope, not realizing she was crying until the knock on her window startled her. Tony stood there, concern on his face, but he looked blurry through her tears.

He opened her car door. “What’s wrong, pet? What happened?”

She couldn’t talk. With a trembling hand, she held out the letter.

He took it, frowning as he read the return address. “This is from him?”

She nodded.

“When did you get it?”

“I forgot to check my mail Friday and Saturday. I stopped by when I left, but I didn’t look through it. It…everything just fell on the floor…I picked it up…”

Then he had her seat belt unfastened and his arm around her shoulder and was leading her into the house where he sat with her on the couch.

“Shh, it’s all right.” He pulled her head into his lap and rocked her as she cried.

When she finally got her wits together, she stared at the envelope, which he’d put on the coffee table. “Will you please open it for me, Sir?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He stretched to reach it and finally grabbed it without having to make her get up. He ripped it open. Inside, nestled in a folded sheet of paper, was a check. He handed it to her.